The Dare Read online

  “Okay,” I replied, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “I’ll do it.”

  chapter 20

  “Good luck, Johanna.”

  I turned from my locker to see who was talking to me.

  A girl with blond hair tied in a long, thick braid flashed me a smile. “Good luck,” she repeated.

  “Huh?” I just stared at her. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then, slowly, it dawned on me. She was wishing me good luck on the dare—good luck on killing Mr. Northwood!

  Hey, I’m getting famous! I thought. I wasn’t sure if I was happy about it or not.

  It was the following Monday. I had the feeling that kids were staring at me, talking about me all down the hall.

  I slammed the locker shut and started to class, when I felt a hand touch my back. “Oh, hi, Margaret,” I said, turning to face her.

  I hadn’t seen much of Margaret lately. I knew she didn’t approve of Dennis and my other new friends. She and I just didn’t have much in common anymore.

  “Johanna—what’s going on?” Margaret demanded. She had a fretful frown on her face, and she looked me up and down as if searching for fleas.

  “Not much,” I replied casually. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t pretend,” Margaret scolded. “I want to know what is going on.”

  She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the girls’ bathroom. She was breathing hard and kept staring at my face as if trying to find some hidden secrets there.

  Suki Thomas was putting on lipstick in front of the mirror. Then Suki started brushing her bleached-blond hair.

  Margaret stared at me without speaking, waiting for Suki to leave.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said impatiently, shifting my backpack to the other shoulder.

  “Just wait,” Margaret replied. Suki finally left. She flashed me a wink as she passed by and gave me a thumbs-up. I hoped Margaret hadn’t caught it.

  I didn’t really want to discuss the dare with Margaret. I knew she wouldn’t understand. I wasn’t sure I understood myself.

  But I guess it was too late to play innocent.

  “The whole school is talking about you!” Margaret declared.

  It was supposed to be an accusation. But I have to admit I liked the idea of everyone talking about me. It was kind of exciting to be some kind of celebrity just once in my life.

  “They say you accepted a dare,” Margaret continued, pushing a strand of red hair off her freckled forehead. “To kill Mr. Northwood. Everyone’s talking about it. But it isn’t true—is it?”

  I hesitated. I could see how upset she was.

  “No. No way,” I muttered, avoiding her accusing eyes.

  “Then why are Zack and Lanny taking bets?” Margaret demanded.

  “Huh? They are?” My surprise was genuine. No one had told me that any bets were being made. I have to admit I was really shocked to hear about it.

  The bell rang.

  “Margaret—we’re going to be late,” I said, edging toward the door.

  She stepped in front of me and blocked my escape. “They’re taking bets. Everyone is betting on whether you’ll do it or not. This is crazy, Johanna. It really is. It’s crazy!”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Yeah, it is. It’s crazy.”

  Margaret is right, I told myself, sitting in math class, staring out the window at a gray day. A light snow was falling, wet snowflakes clinging silently to the window-pane.

  It’s crazy. The whole idea is crazy. There’s no way I’m going through with this. No way.

  It had seemed like such a romantic thing to say that night up on River Ridge. It was so exciting to be up there with Dennis. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted so desperately for him to like me.

  But I’d had a lot of time to think about it. In fact, I hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

  And I knew I couldn’t do it.

  I looked for Dennis after school. I had to tell him. I had to tell him the dare was off.

  But I couldn’t find him.

  Lanny came running up to me in the hall. “Over a thousand dollars,” he whispered excitedly, grinning at me. “Do you believe it?”

  “Huh?” I stared back at him, trying to figure out what he was telling me.

  “A thousand dollars so far,” he repeated, whispering. “And you get half of it.”

  “I do? I didn’t realize—”

  “If you-know-what happens to you-know-who,” Lanny added.

  “But, wait—” I cried. I wanted to tell him he had to return the money.

  “Got to run!” Lanny cried, trotting away. “Later!” He disappeared around the corner.

  Five hundred dollars? I thought. I’d never had that kind of money in my life. I’d never seen five hundred dollars!

  I looked down at the big moth hole on the sleeve of my sweater. Five hundred dollars could buy a few new sweaters, I thought wistfully.

  But it was crazy. So totally crazy.

  I wasn’t killing Mr. Northwood for the money. I was killing him to help Dennis. Just for Dennis.

  Dennis had dared me.

  And you can’t wimp out on a dare.

  And—whoa! Whoa, girl!

  What was I thinking?

  I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t kill Mr. Northwood even if I wanted to—could I?

  That night Mom was home early for once. We had a pretty nice dinner together. I forced myself not to think about the dare and all that was going on at school over it.

  When Mom asked me what was happening at school, I made up some things about class projects and the annual talent show. I felt guilty lying, but what could I do? I couldn’t tell her what was really on my mind.

  The phone rang a little after seven. I ran to pick it up. I didn’t want Mom to get there first in case it was Dennis.

  And it was.

  “Dennis, Mom’s home,” I whispered. “I can’t talk.”

  “Saturday,” he said. “The bets are all for Saturday. I’m counting on you, Johanna.” Then he hung up.

  chapter 21

  I stared out the kitchen window at Mr. Northwood’s backyard. The late afternoon sun had drifted behind large gray clouds. Yesterday’s snow had stopped after a few hours, leaving only a powdery film over the grass and bare trees.

  Two enormous black crows had perched on top of the tall woodpile in the center of Mr. Northwood’s yard. They were bobbing their heads and cawing loudly. They seemed to be having some kind of argument.

  When Mr. Northwood appeared in the yard, zipping up his red and black plaid wool coat, the crows gave a startled cry and flapped away.

  I watched Mr. Northwood as he pulled a red wool ski cap over his bushy gray hair. Then he made his way to the woodpile. It was stacked so high, so many logs, it rose up over his head.

  He bent down and picked up a couple of logs from a lower stack. Then, bundling them in his arms, he started back to his house.

  I swallowed hard. I had a sudden idea.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to shoot Mr. Northwood.

  Maybe I could kill him another way and make it look like an accident.

  “Yes!” I cried aloud, so excited my legs were trembling. “Yes!”

  I heard his kitchen storm door slam. He disappeared into his house.

  I ran outside. I didn’t stop to get my coat. I knew I didn’t have much time.

  I had watched Mr. Northwood bring wood into the house before. He always carried two logs at a time. He always made three or four trips.

  I knew he would be back out for two more logs in a matter of seconds.

  I took a deep breath of the frozen air and started to run. I prayed he wouldn’t see me.

  I had to get behind the woodpile before he returned.

  My legs felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds. Halfway across his backyard, I glanced at his house. No sign of him.

  With a desperate gasp I forced my legs to move.

  Got to get there. Got to get there!

  I practically dived be
hind the tall wall of logs as I heard Mr. Northwood’s kitchen door slam again.

  Keeping low behind the woodpile, I struggled to catch my breath, listening to him humming softly to himself as he returned for more logs.

  Could I do it? Could I?

  The timing had to be just right.

  I heard his footsteps. His humming grew louder. I knew he was just about at the woodpile now.

  I tensed both hands. I raised them above my head and placed them against the rough wall of logs.

  I suddenly felt weak, so weak, as if all my muscles were melting away.

  No! I told myself.

  Don’t give in to that. Don’t weaken.

  Mr. Northwood was on the other side of the wood-pile. I could hear his whistling breaths. I could hear the scrape of his corduroy trouser legs.

  So close. So close.

  I heard him let out a soft groan as he bent over to pick up logs.

  And I heaved against the tall woodpile with all my might. I shoved against it with both hands and then my entire body.

  The logs toppled forward.

  Yes!

  I heard Mr. Northwood’s startled cry.

  The logs dropped onto him, buried him beneath them.

  He uttered a curse and then cried out in pain.

  I stepped around to see him struggling to climb out.

  I froze as he stared up at me, his blue eyes cold and angry. I was disappointed. I had expected logs to fall on his head, to knock him out.

  But he called out my name. He shoved a log off his chest and started to climb to his feet.

  “No,” I said aloud. “No, no.” I couldn’t allow that. He wasn’t supposed to climb out.

  I lifted a heavy log off the tangle of logs. It was covered with dark brown bark and had a sharp point on one side where a branch had been broken off.

  “No, no, no.”

  I swung the log down as hard as I could on top of his red wool ski cap.

  A loud oof escaped his mouth. His skull made a disgusting sound as it cracked open.

  Then his mouth dropped open, and his blue eyes spun wildly like marbles in his head.

  Blood poured down from under the cap, like a red waterfall over his face.

  Then his head dropped back, and his entire body sprawled backward onto the logs.

  “Yuck. What a mess!” I whispered, shaking my head.

  The sound of his skull cracking kept repeating in my mind. I wondered if I would ever be able to crack open an egg without thinking of Mr. Northwood.

  With a shudder, I bent over him and placed my finger under his nose. I kept it there for several seconds, until I was sure he wasn’t breathing.

  Then I started picking up logs and arranging them on top of his body. I dropped the bloody one onto his face. I piled two or three more over his chest.

  My heart was pounding as I stepped back to admire my work.

  Did it look like an accident?

  Yes.

  What a terrible accident. Poor Mr. Northwood was killed when his woodpile collapsed on top of him.

  That’s what everyone would say.

  Poor Mr. Northwood.

  I took a last look, dropped one more log over his chest, and hurried to the house to call Dennis with the good news.

  chapter 22

  That was another of my frightening fantasies.

  Staring out my kitchen window at the woodpile, I imagined the whole scene with Mr. Northwood.

  If only it were true, I thought.

  If only I didn’t have to shoot him.

  It was Thursday afternoon, and I had stayed home from school. My stomach was upset. I felt really shaky and strange. I was a nervous wreck.

  The alarm had gone off at seven, the usual time. I had started to get dressed—and then realized I couldn’t face another day at school, another day of kids staring at me, wishing me good luck, asking me when I was going to shoot him.

  At first, I had loved all the attention.

  But now it frightened me.

  After my mom went off to work, I climbed back into bed. I was shaking all over. I couldn’t get rid of my chills. Finally I fell back to sleep and didn’t wake up until noon.

  I kept getting painful stomachaches. And I felt like I had to puke. I forced down some buttered toast and a Coke for lunch, but then my stomach felt even worse.

  Maybe I’m sick, I thought. Maybe I really do have the flu.

  But I knew I was just scared to death about killing Mr. Northwood.

  Once he’s dead, I’ll feel so much better. That’s what I told myself. Strange way to cheer oneself up, huh?

  I should have worked on my research project. But I knew I couldn’t concentrate.

  I didn’t waste the day, though. I found a good hiding place for the pistol. There is a loose stone in the basement wall behind the dryer. After I shoot Mr. Northwood, I’ll pull the stone out and slip the gun into the hole. The gun will fit snugly behind the stone, and no one will ever find it.

  Finding that hiding place made me feel a little better. But just a little bit.

  Dennis called at three-thirty. He saw that I wasn’t in school and wondered if I was okay.

  I thought it was sweet of him to call. He’s really starting to care about me, I thought.

  “We’ve collected nearly twelve hundred dollars,” he told me, lowering his voice to a whisper. I could picture his green eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Wow” was all I managed to reply. I mean, it was impressive. That’s a lot of money.

  “Half of it is yours,” Dennis continued, “if—”

  “Shhhhh.” I cut him off. “I don’t care about the money. I really don’t.”

  “But you’re still doing it, right?” Dennis asked. I caught a little worry in his voice.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I replied reluctantly.

  “Saturday,” Dennis repeated. “Saturday.”

  I didn’t want him to hang up. I wanted to talk longer. I wanted him to tell me that he was dumping Caitlin, that he was interested only in me now. I wanted him to tell me how brave I was, how much I was helping him, how much fun we were going to have together once … once Mr. Northwood was dead.

  But Dennis muttered good-bye, and the dial tone buzzed in my ear.

  As I replaced the receiver, Dennis’s low voice echoed in my ear. “Saturday … Saturday … Saturday …”

  I heard sounds in the backyard. Making my way to the kitchen window, I saw Mr. Northwood. Home from school. In his red and black flannel jacket and wool ski cap. Bending over to pick up logs from his woodpile.

  That’s when I had the evil fantasy of pushing the logs onto him and bashing in his skull and making it look like a terrible accident.

  My daydream ended. Mr. Northwood was still standing there in the middle of his backyard.

  And as I stared at him, bundling two logs in his arms and starting to the house with them, I realized I was shaking all over.

  “I can’t take this!” I cried aloud.

  I knew that I’d never make it to Saturday. Never.

  My heart pounding, I walked quickly to the desk in the living room to get the gun. I untaped the key my mother hid under the desk and slid it into the keyhole.

  I’m going to do it now, I decided.

  chapter 23

  My hand was trembling as I pulled open the drawer and reached for the gun. But I stopped shaking as soon as my hand wrapped around the pistol.

  Something about how solid it was made me feel calmer.

  It felt so warm in my cold, clammy hand. Warm and almost … comforting.

  I dragged my coat out of the front closet and pulled it on. Then I slipped the gun into a coat pocket.

  I’m going to feel so much better in just a few moments, I told myself.

  I peered out through the window in the kitchen door. Mr. Northwood was bending over in front of the woodpile, arranging logs, his back to me.

  I opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the back stoop. I had my right hand
inside the coat pocket, wrapped tightly around the pistol.

  I’m going to feel so much better.

  It was a bone-chillingly cold day, but I couldn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything except the pistol in my hand.

  I didn’t see anything except Mr. Northwood bent over his logs.

  I made my way across my backyard, stepping carefully over the frozen ground, being careful not to make a sound.

  How close do I need to get? I asked myself, staring hard at Mr. Northwood’s red and black wool back.

  How close? How close?

  Close enough not to miss.

  I stopped short when he stood up.

  Was he going to turn around and see me? Was he going to spoil this for me?

  He stretched, pushing his long arms straight up over his head. Then he bent again and began lifting logs onto a low stack.

  I pulled the gun from my coat pocket. I was squeezing it so tightly, my hand hurt.

  I pulled back the hammer. It made a metallic click.

  I sucked in my breath, afraid Mr. Northwood had heard it.

  He let out a groan as he dropped some logs onto the stack he was building.

  I took another step toward him, tiptoeing on the frozen grass. Another step.

  How close do I have to get? How close?

  Another step. Another.

  I raised the gun, aimed it at his back.

  Am I really doing this? I suddenly wondered. Am I really crossing the backyard with a loaded pistol in my hand?

  Am I really going to shoot Mr. Northwood?

  Or is this another one of my violent fantasies?

  No.

  This was no fantasy. This was real.

  Cold and real.

  I aimed for his back, slid my finger over the trigger, and prepared to shoot.

  chapter 24

  “Johanna!”

  I gasped as I heard a girl shout my name.

  Mr. Northwood heard her too. He spun around, startled.

  Had he seen the gun before I jammed it back into my coat pocket?

  “Johanna, I didn’t hear you!” he cried, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

  “I—I came to ask you about the homework,” I stammered, thinking quickly.

  I turned to see who had called out my name. “Margaret!” She was standing in the driveway, her bulging backpack slung over the shoulder of her coat. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.